Tea, Coffee, and the Changing Wind
by ShadowChanger
Summary: John Watson discovers that there actually is some sort of joy in cold coffee, black moods, and a crooked wing. wing!lock
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

John H. Watson's wings were not unusual. His wingspan is slightly longer than his height. The feathers are slightly sun-bleached, with darker brown streaks. The right wing is held several centimeters lower than the left. This gives Dr. Watson a rather lopsided appearance. The cause is a gunshot wound to the right _supracoracoideus. _Small downy feathers cover the large, formerly-featherless area.

* * *

><p>The last time John Watson flew was a quiet morning in June 2009. There had been some sort of Islamic holiday that gave everyone a chance to breathe.<p>

He remembered the delighted whoops and shouts of his mates as they rode the hot air columns. It was the first time any of them had gotten the chance to stretch in weeks.

He remembered the comfortable pull and the welcome burn of unused muscles. The wind combed through his feathers and chased away weeks of sand, mud, and heat.

He remembered seeing the soldier in front of him drop like a stone.

He remembered being shot out of the sky.

* * *

><p>The boys from his squad shouted, "Captain!"<p>

The Major screamed orders at the others. "_DIVE! GET ON THE GROUND!"_

John watched it all with a detached mind. His body was numb – no; weightless.

He remembered falling, tumbling through the still air, seeing his wings waving limply, plunging toward the hot sand and –

- waking up on the floor tangled in his bed sheets.

_Bullocks._

John angrily kicked his way out of the sheet and struggled to his feet. The entire right side of his body was hurting. Of course, there was hardly a time when that side of his body _didn't _hurt. He groaned rather pathetically as he hobbled the short distance from the bed to the kitchenette.

He started the tea and stretched while he waited. He'd have to wait to soothe his cramped wing; the temporary flat was simply too damned small. One would think that a room would have enough to stretch one's wings, but for some reason the military denied its grounded soldiers that convenience.

John limped back to his desk, tea now in hand. With a thud and a few choice words, he maneuvered himself into the chair. His wing gave a sharp twinge. He was going to get hell from his therapist about that today, he could already tell.

"John." He remembered the way she had said it, almost pitying but not quite. "John. I have reason to believe that you... handicaps … are psychosomatic."

"The pain isn't real. You injuries have healed."

"Phantom pain, that's all it is, John. Phantom pain."

Every session was the same. And no, dammit, the pain he felt was _not _his imagination. His wing, his leg, they fucking _hurt._

John really wanted to fire his therapist.

Too bad he has two months of required appointments remaining. In the meantime, he blogged. Well, he pretended to blog. The therapist said it would help him to write about his time in the war. Bullshit. He didn't need help with the war. He needed help with his leg and wing.

As he drank his tea, he stared at his computer. His mind wandered. Then, he had an idea.

Today, John decided, he would go out.

* * *

><p>He hated the cane. It drew more attention to his injuries than John wanted. The scar tissue on his wing was obvious enough, not to mention the limp.<p>

_ What's the bright side, John?_

The bright side was that at least he didn't have to use the crutches anymore. "Crutch Month" was the first time he saw the therapist, back when his wing still dragged behind him on the ground because it hurt to furl it close to his body. Crutch Month was a time best forgotten.

* * *

><p>John limped along the path through the small park. It felt good to be outside. The slight breeze ruffled a few of his feathers and curled through his primaries.<p>

He could feel the stares, though. It wasn't paranoia; people really were looking at the downy feathers that had just started to grow over the scar. Either that or at the way he was unable to lift his injured wing as high as the other. John didn't hate them for it, not anymore. They simply couldn't help it.

One bloke in particular, however, was blatantly staring at John without attempting to restrain himself at all. He was a beefy man, wore thick glasses, and had scruffy feathers.

John avoided the man's gaze as he limped by, his wings automatically trying to furl closer to his body. Only one wing actually succeeded.

"John?" the man suddenly asked, leaping from his seat on a park bench.

"I'm sorry," John began, "you must have me confused-"

"John Watson!" The man's wing's twitched excitedly. John noticed that they were ridiculously too small for a man of that size.

The man continued, "Stamford. Mike Stamford! We were at Bart's together?"

_Oh, Mike. Of course. How had he not recognized Mike? …well. Mike had certainly put on some weight. He hadn't always wore glasses, had he? _Mike was looking at him expectantly.

"Right, yes, Mike! Sorry I…"

"No, it's all right. I got fat, is all!" Mike laughed as John stuttered over his denial of Mike's obvious weight-gain. They shook hands, and Mike's eyes locked onto the cane. For a moment, nothing happened. Mike looked back up at John's face before speaking.

"I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" he asked. John could hear the struggle in Mike's voice, the internal argument was written all over the larger man's face. Should he joke? Should he be serious? John had seen it all before. At least it wasn't pity this time.

"I got shot," he deadpanned.

Mike's expression crumpled for a moment before he could recover.

"Of course, sorry. Would you – here, sit."

They sat on the bench Mike had just vacated, John making a face when his wing knocked against the wood. A very still, very awkward silence settled in.

"…You still at Bart's then?" John asked finally. Mike grinned, his wings jumping up and out before snapping back to his body.

"You'll never believe this, but I'm teaching now."

John made the appropriate noises of disbelief as Mike laughed and nodded.

"Yeah, teaching. Bright young things, you know, like we used to be. God's body, I hate the little bastards," he laughed again, louder this time. John chuckled. He remembered those days. He had been quite the terror.

"What about you, then? Where do they have you playing sawbones?" Mike asked eagerly. God, that man's wings were ridiculously expressive.

John took a deep breath… and another, forcing the tremors in his hand to cease before he opened his mouth.

"Nowhere, actually. I'm trying to find a decent flat, and I can't afford anything in London. Not on my Army pension."

Mike nodded sympathetically, his wings drooping.

The scraggly feathers jumped suddenly and Mike turned his body toward John. "What about a flatshare?"

John snorted. "Yeah? And who would want to share a flat with a cri-" he stopped himself, swallowed, "with me?" His leg began to twitch painfully.

Mike's eyes gleamed. He grinned and raised his eyebrows.

"Funny," he said, his wings shuffling. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John froze, blinked rapidly. His good wing stretched upwards a few inches.

"Who was the first?"


	2. Chapter 2

**And here we are again. Pardon the delay, I was waiting for summer hols to start before I go into writing. But now updates should arrive more frequently, so have at it. Unbeta'd this time, so forgive my errors.**

* * *

><p>Chapter Two<p>

It started with a question.

It started with a rather random question from a man with the proportions of an upright, malnourished giraffe. Well, a giraffe with massive black wings that were held _just so_ in order to keep the tips from touching the floor. _Jesus, his wingspan must be outrageous; and how does he _not _have back problems? _But back to reality.

It started with a question after John offered up his phone.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

A simple question, really. Nothing too abnormal about it. A little out of the blue, yes, but not weird. Mike must have told the man about John's military history. And of course, being the wonderfully articulate chap John is, he mustered up a response.

"Um. What?"

The taller man posed the question again, his wings hanging perfectly still around his shoulders. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked it a bit slower this time, glancing up at John from the phone in his hands.

John looked over at Mike, who shrugged and smiled knowingly. Mike's wings were relaxed; not a single feather twitched. But the taller man was still waiting on a response, so John closed his gaping mouth, swallowed, and directed his attention back to the matter at hand.

"Afghanistan, but how on Ea-"

The door _swished_ open behind John and the other man's attention was immediately diverted.

"Molly! Coffee…

And so the meeting turned into something bewildering and more than a little alarming and John was left standing in the suddenly flat world with nothing but a name and an address.

Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.

* * *

><p>"Mike, where on <em>Earth <em>did you meet Mr. Holmes?" John asked when he had regained his bearings. The fat man grinned knowingly and jerked his head toward the door.

"Here, at Bart's, a year or two ago. Well, more like a year or five," he shrugged, wings following the motion of his shoulders. "Smartest bloke I'd ever met. Still is. Can be a bit…"

"-odd?" John suggested.

"…eccentric," Mike finished, and there was no way he could hide the sheepish look on his face. "He works here in the lab all the time, sometimes he decides to come down from on high and help that young woman – Molly – with things the Yard brings her. Um, well, he mostly just invites himself in and no one can seem to get him to piss off." Mike laughed, and after a moment John joined him, cracking an honest-to-God smile for the first time that day. _Eccentric. _Yes, definitely.

John shifted his weight off of his bad leg. "Tell me, Mike, what's he _really _like? Violin when he thinks?" he asked, tilting his head. "And what was the other thing… not talking for several days? Is he serious?"

Mike snorted once, smiled, then dissolved into choking laughter. "Oh, he's serious," he chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to _not _be serious! Christ, you should see him when the blokes from upstairs try to tell jokes around him! He just gives them that _look, _you know, the one he gave you when he asked about Afghanistan, and they clam up. Hilarious, trust me." He laughed again, his undersized wings quivering. John smiled briefly. He wasn't interested in jokes anymore; he wanted to know more about this Holmes fellow.

Mike looked right at John, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Something else, John?"

"Of course." John frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. "How did he know all that abo- about me? I haven't told anyone about the thera-" his mouth went dry suddenly. He swallowed, licked his lips, and tried again. "No one knows about the therapy," he finished softly. He drew his wings in closer, the muscles tightening, and his knuckles turned white around the grip of the damned cane. _Get a hold of yourself, John. It's just the fucking therapist. Lots of soldiers go to therapy. Relax. _

Mike was either completely oblivious to John's distress or very good at appearing so. His feathers poofed outwards and he stood up straighter.

"Oh, that's his little trick, isn't it! He can just look at you and tell what you've done that day, never wrong, either! I swear I never mentioned a word to him about you; the last time I spoke to him was this morning. He just _knows,_" Mike finished conspiratorially.

John shifted again. "Yes, but _how _does he know? He's not God," he exhaled forcefully as he said it. Mike just grinned and shrugged, his wings following the movement yet again.

"I told you, he just knows."

* * *

><p>John returned to his temporary lodgings later that afternoon. His leg felt heavy, but, surprisingly, his wing wasn't a ball of cramped muscle. Limping over to the tiny desk across from the tiny bed, he flopped gracelessly down in the chair and opened his laptop. It chimed cheerfully at him and the screen brightened.<p>

_Search: Sherlock Holmes_

_The Science of Deduction_

The what? Science of 'deduction'? John clicked the link, and felt his eyebrows rise higher and higher as the sun set lower and lower.

* * *

><p>He chose to walk to Baker Street.<p>

Not so good of a choice, as it turned out.

Three kids managed to step on the bottom of his bad wing as they sprinted past, successfully pulling out a long primary feather. John bent down painfully and picked up the now-torn-and-dirty feather. He sighed and pocketed the thing. _Onwards, John. Onwards,_ he told himself as he straightened with a groan and stumped determinedly down the sidewalk. Two more blocks, and he would be there.

Six more blocks, actually. Damn the roadwork and closed sidewalks and the wrong turn four hundred meters back. He arrived (_finally_) at the north end of Baker Street, and walked the last few dozen meters slowly in order to catch his breath. It wouldn't do to show up looking as if he had just run a marathon. John hated his leg. He grumbled lowly to himself and glanced at the buildings on his left, searching for 221.

A small, slightly dingy red awning caught his eye the second before the tall black door. _Speedy's _read the awning and _221b _read the door. John had arrived.

221b Baker Street. The paint on the door was beginning to fade, and the brass numbers showed evidence of tarnish. It looked like a rather boring door, if John was going to be honest. Very… ordinary. _Well of course it's ordinary you ninny. It's a _door.

He reached for the knocker and was brushing his fingers over it when he heard the short "Afternoon." Followed by the slamming of a car door.

John turned and saw Mr. Holmes paying a cabbie before turning to face him, the large overcoat flaring out at the bottom. The black wings twitched once before settling in place, the tips never coming close to the dusty sidewalk. _Back problems, _John told himself, _he's going to have them. _

"Hello!" he called, waving the hand that had been reaching for the knocker. Did he sound too cheerful? Or too flat? He forced himself to relax. "Afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Nice place," he commented and stuck out his free hand for Mr. Holmes to shake. The taller man did, replying, "Please, call me Sherlock." and nodding in agreement. Mr. Homles' – Sherlock's – eyes darted over John once before snapping to the cane and narrowing for a fraction of a second.

"It must cost quite a lot," John said flatly. It was just a cane. Just the thrice-cursed, goddamn _cane. _Sherlock's gaze drifted away from John almost lazily and he reached around John to knock on the door.

"Yes. The landlady, Ms. Hudson, was willing to offer me a deal. Together we should be able to afford it easily." The door opened, revealing a short elderly woman with thin horizontally striped wings. "Ah! Ms. Hudson!"

Ms. Hudson smiled brightly at Sherlock as she leaned forward and embraced him. "Sherlock, good to see you! Brought this one to see the flat, have you?" She turned her smile on John, and stepped out of the doorway. "Come in, the both of you!"

John thanked the landlady and followed Sherlock inside 221b. It was a nice place, had good potential… well, the front room did. Oh, look. Stairs. John sighed inaudibly as Sherlock jogged up the staircase, taking the steps two at the time. With a determined _harrumph_, he mounted the first step and willed his leg to _behave. _He made it to the top without any major mishap; he nodded at Sherlock, who opened the door on the landing.

'Clutter' was the first word that came to mind when John looked around the room. Was this the sitting room, then? Yes, there was the fireplace and the telly. 'Untidy' was another word, along with 'unorganized' and 'generally lacking in cleanliness'. He wanted to assume that the apparent junk lying around was what remained of the previous renters, but something in the back of his mind suggested rather knowingly that stuff was all belonging to one Sherlock Holmes. John sighed silently again. Well, it was a step up from the military lodgings, at least.

* * *

><p>Unsurprisingly, the stuff lying around the flat was indeed Sherlock's. All of it, including but not limited to the skull on the mantle, the honest-to-God <em>laboratory <em>in the kitchen, the piles of books and files, and the five briefcases of assorted shapes and sizes, was there to stay. And to top it all off, Ms. Hudson assumed they were… together… John sighed out loud this time. What had he gotten himself into?

Ms. Hudson – landlady, not housekeeper! – was saying something to Sherlock about the suicides that had been in the papers. His low baritone voice interrupted John's thoughts easily.

"Four," he said. He was looking out the window at something. "There's been a fourth."

* * *

><p>Within the next five hours, John had accidentally yelled at the houseke- no, sorry, landlady, followed a man he had only known for maybe thirty minutes into a cab headed God-knew-where (but it turned out to be a rotten old place at Lauristan Gardens), and he's pretty sure he illegally examined a murder victim at a crime scene in full view of a Detective Inspector.<p>

John felt amazing.

Well, John _had _felt amazing until he found out that Sherlock had run off in a fit of genius – and _good God _that man was brilliant! Amazing! Mike was right, he just knew! – and left him to stump down the long staircase awkwardly while snotty Donovan whined something about Sherlock being a crazy freak or something. John ignored her until he realized he had no idea where he was.

"Uh, sorry, do you know where I could get a cab?" he asked. She pointed up the street and lifted the police tape for him.

"Be careful, Dr. Watson," she called after him. "Sherlock Holmes isn't a normal person. He'll turn into one of the crazies one day, just you wait." He waved over his shoulder and limped toward the main road.

The main road was a drastic change in sound and light compared to the neighborhood where the crime scene was. John was waving futilely at a passing cab when the payphone nearest him rang. John looked at it curiously. Who called a payphone? Who _answered _a call made to a payphone?

Apparently, John Watson did the latter.

Which is how he ended up in a ridiculous black car that screamed 'spy movie' next to a lovely young woman that was paying him absolutely no attention.

Her wings were nondescript brown with no mottling or bars or even change in color. Just… brown feathers from base to tip. Her (fake) name was Anthea, and John did not think about the fact that she might be about to assassinate him with her Blackberry. Instead, he thought about the old warehouse they were driving into and the figure standing extremely crooked in the middle of the abandoned building. Who does things like this anymore? Covert kidnappings and hush-hush meetings in empty warehouses; like the car, it was all definitely very 'spy movie'.

He got out of the car, _hmph_ing at his leg and his wing and the whole damn experience. The man waiting for him in the middle of the room remained expressionless… as he leaned on his umbrella. Well, that rather spoiled the entire effect, didn't it?

* * *

><p>The mystery man's wings were large, almost as large as Sherlock's. At least, John thought they might be; they were held so tightly to the man's body that it was hard to judge their size. They were a rather nonthreatening grey with darker bars and a few white stripes, however. The man was taller than John and held himself with an air of aloofness.<p>

"I am willing to offer you a large sum of money to keep an eye out for Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson," he said. John's cell phone vibrated; he was surprised to see it was Sherlock himself, texting John.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH._

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH._

Great. Now John had to figure out how to get away from this lunatic and his strange offer. He sighed. If this was what life with Sherlock Holmes was going to be like…

Well, let's just say John felt amazing.

* * *

><p>**And there we go. Chapter Two complete. Thanks for reading and don't forget to review! :D<p>

~ShadowChanger


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